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sigb, “and rich people are not much in my way. Literary people and out-atelbow scribblers are my usual associates; for," he went on, remembering that there was a possibility of doing some business with Mr. Fisher, and that he had better make an impression on the great man, "I never met any illustrious members of that profession till to-night, excepting our friend Walter of course.' 99

Mr. Fisher looked a little disgusted and turned to the young lady of the party. "Have you been very musical lately, Miss Dunlop?" he inquired.

"No," she answered, "not very. But we enjoyed the concert. It was very kind of you to send me the tickets."

The editor's face lighted up.

"I am glad," he said; "and did you find a pleasant chaperon ?"

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I went with my

the unsuccessful appeal to her rich rela tion, and of the port wine that had always proved pernicious to her digestion.

"Your cousin!" said Mr. Wimple, and he fixed another long, steady gaze upon Mrs. Baines, "that is very interesting;" and he was silent.

"Cousins seem to abound in our con. versation this evening," Miss Dunlop said to Mr. Fisher; "it must be terrible to be cousin to the lord mayor."

"Like being related to Gog and Magog," he whispered.

"Even worse," she answered, pretending to shudder.

But Mrs. Hibbert was looking at Aunt Anne, for it was time to go up-stairs. Mrs. Baines went out of the door with a stateliness that was downright courage considering how small and slight she was. Ethel Dunlop, standing aside to let her pass, looked at her admiringly, but the old lady gave her back, with the left eye, a momentary glance that was merely conde

"Is that the good-looking youth I saw you with once? "Youth," Ethel laughed, "he is three-scending. Unless Aunt Anne took a and-twenty."

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'He is fortunate in having the privilege as well as the time to avail himself of it," the editor said formally. His manner was always reserved, sometimes even a little stately. Now and then, oddly enough, it reminded one of Aunt Anne's, though it was a generation younger, and he had not ber faculty for long words.

"You never seem able to go to concerts. It is quite sad and wicked," Ethel said brightly.

He looked up as if he liked her. "Not often. Perhaps some day if you would honor me, only I am not a cousin; still I have passed the giddy age of Mr. Dighton."

"We will, we will," she laughed, and nodded; "but only relations are able to survive the responsibility of taking me about alone, perhaps Mrs. Hibbert would

"

"Ah yes, Mr. Wimple," they heard Mrs. Baines say, "I have good reason to know Sir William Rammage. He is my own cousin, though for years and years we had not met till we did so a few months since, when I came to take up my residence in London."

The old lady's mouth twitched nervously, the sad note of a week ago made itself heard in her voice again. Mrs. Hibbert knew that she was thinking of

fancy to people, or made a point of being agreeable, she was apt to be condescending. Her manner to young people was sometimes impatient, and to servants it was generally irritating. She had taken a dislike to Miss Dunlop-she considered her forward. She did not like the manner in which she did her hair. She was of opinion that her dress was unbecoming. All these things had determined Mrs. Baines to snub Miss Dunlop, who illdeserved it, for she was a pretty, motherless girl of one-and-twenty, very anxious to do right and to find the world a pleasant dwelling-place.

The old lady sat down on the yellow couch in the drawing-room again, the same couch on which, a fortnight before, she had sat and related her misfortunes. But it was difficult to believe that she was the same person. Her dress was spread out; her gloves were drawn on and carefully buttoned; she opened and shut a small black fan; she looked round the drawingroom with an air of condescension, and almost sternly refused coffee with a any, I thank you," that made the servant feel rebuked for having offered it. Mrs. Hibbert and Ethel felt that she was indeed mistress of the situation.

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dently feeling that she had taken quite enough notice of Miss Dunlop, she turned to her niece.

"My dear Florence," she said, "I think Mr. Wimple is charming. He has one of the most expressive countenances I ever beheld."

"Oh, Mrs. Baines, do you really think so?" Ethel Dunlop exclaimed. "Certainly I do." And Mrs. Baines turned her back. 66 Florence, are not you of my opinion?"

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to herself rather than to any one else, and then quickly recovering she looked round and apologized. "It is so long," she said, "and I forget."

She began softly some variations on "I know a bank," and played them through to the end. When they were finished she rose and, with a little old-fashioned bow to the piano, turned to Florence, and saying, with a sweet and curious dignity, "Thank you, my dear, and your friends too for listening to me," went back to her

seat.

Mr. Wimple was near her chair, he bent down to her.

"Well, Aunt Anne, I hardly know and happily the entrance of the men prevented any further discussion. Somehow conversation flagged a little, and silence "You gave us a great treat," he said, as threatened to fall on the party. Florence if he were stating a scientific fact. felt uneasy.

"Are we to have some music?" Walter asked presently. In these days music after dinner, unless it is very excellent or there is some special reason for introducing it, is generally a flag of distress, a sign that dulness is near. Florence knew it, and looking at Ethel tried to cover it by asking for a song.

"Ethel sings German songs delightfully, Aunt Anne," she said; "I think you would enjoy listening to her."

"I should enjoy listening to any friend of yours," the old lady answered. But Miss Dunlop pleaded hoarseness and did not stir.

Mr. Wimple roused himself a little. "I am sure Mrs. Baines plays," he said, standing before her. Aunt Anne gave a long sigh.

66

My playing days are over," she answered.

"Oh no, Aunt Anne," laughed Walter, "we cannot allow you to make that excuse."

In a moment she had risen.

"I never make excuses, Walter," she said proudly; "if it is your wish-if it will give you pleasure I will touch the keys again, though it is long since I brought myself even to sit down before an instrument."

She took her place at the piano; she pulled out her handkerchief, not one of the black-bordered ones that Florence had sent her a week ago, but a dainty one of lawn and lace, and held it for a moment to her forehead, then suddenly, with a strange, vibrating touch that almost startled her listeners, she began to play " Oft in the stilly night." Only for a moment did the fire last, her fingers grew feeble, they missed the notes, she shook her head dreamily.

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Mrs. Baines listened to his words gravely, she seemed to revolve them in her mind for a moment before she looked up.

"I am sure you are musical, Mr. Wimple," she said, "I can see it on your face.” "Aunt Anne," Walter said, passing her, "should you mind my opening this window?"

"No, my darling, I should like it," she answered tenderly.

Mr. Wimple gave a long sigh. "Lucky beggar he is; you are very fond of him?

"Oh yes," she answered, "he is like my own son," and she nodded at Walter, who was carrying on a laughing conversation with Ethel Dunlop, while his wife was having what seemed to be a serious one with Mr. Fisher. She looked round the room, her gaze rested on the open window. "I think the carriage must be waiting," she said, almost to herself.

"I will tell you," and Mr. Wimple went on to the balcony. "It is a lovely night, Mrs. Baines," he said, and turning back he fastened his strange eyes upon her. Without a word she rose and followed him.

"Aunt Anne," Florence said, "you will catch your death of cold; you mustn't go out. Walter, dear, get my thick white shawl for Aunt Anne."

"Oh no, my love, pray continue your conversation; I have always made a point of looking up at the sky before I retire to rest, therefore it is not likely to do me harm."

"I wouldn't let it do you harm for the world," Mr. Wimple whispered.

She heard him; but she seemed to digest his words slowly, for she nodded to herself before, with the manner and smile that were so entirely her own, she answered ;

"Pray don't distress yourself, Mr. Wim- | ple, I am accustomed to stand before the elements at all seasons of the year, and this air is not likely to be detrimental to me; besides," she added, with a gentle laugh, “perhaps though I boasted of my age just now I am not so old as I look. Oh, dear Walter, you are too good to me - dear boy," and she turned and let him wrap the thick white shawl about her. He lingered for a moment, but there fell the dead silence that sometimes seems to chase away a third person, so that feeling that he was not wanted, he went back to Ethel Dunlop. It was a good thing Aunt Anne liked Alfred, he thought. He had been afraid the latter would not wholly enjoy his evening, but the old lady seemed to be making up for Florence's rather scanty attentions.

"It is impossible to you to be old," Mr. Wimple said, still speaking almost in a whisper.

The old lady appeared not to hear him, her hands were holding the white shawl close round her neck, her eyes were following the long row of street lamps on the right. The horses, waiting with the carriage before the house, moved restlessly, and made their harness clink in the stillness. Far off, a cornet was playing as cornets love to do," Then you'll remember me." Beside her stood the young man, watching. Behind in the drawingroom, dimly lighted by the shaded lamp and candles, the others were talking, forgetful of everything but the subject that interested them. Cheap, sentimental surrounding enough, but they all told on the old lady standing out on the balcony. The stars looking down on her lighted up the soft white about her throat, and the outline of the shawl-wrapped shoulders, almost youthful in their slenderness. Mr. Wimple went a little closer, the tears came into her eyes, they trickled down her withered cheeks, but he did not know it.

"It is like years ago," she whispered, "those dear children and all-all-it carries me back to forty-more, eightand-forty years ago, when I was a girl, and now I am old, I am old, it is the end of the world for me."

He stooped and picked up the handkerchief with the lace border.

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voice that would have jarred horribly on more sensitive nerves "in reality I am older than you, for I have found the world so much colder than you can have done." He said it with deliberation, as if each word were weighed, or had been learnt beforehand. "I wish you would teach me to live out of the abundance of youth that will always be yours."

She listened to him attentively; she turned and looked towards her left, far ahead, away into the distance, as if puzzled and fascinated by it, almost as if she were afraid of the darkness to which the distance reached. Then she gave a little nod, as if she had remembered that it was only the trees of the Regent's Park that made the blackness.

"If you would teach me to live out of the abundance of youth that will always be yours," he said again, as if on consideration he were well satisfied with the sentence, and thought it merited a worthy reply.

She listened attentively for the second time, and looked half puzzled :—

"I should esteem myself most fortunate, if I could be of use to any friend of Walter's," she answered, with sad but almost sweet formality.

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"You have so many who love you The voice was still hard and grating. "No," she said, "oh no "There is Sir William Rammage." He spoke slowly.

"Ah!" she said sadly, "he forgets. And old association has no effect upon him."

"Has he any brothers and sisters?" he asked. It was a curious question. "They are gone. They all died years and years ago.'

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"It is remarkable that he never married."

"I suppose his inclinations did not prompt him to do so."

"He seems to have no one belonging to him."

"There are hardly any left," she answered, with a sigh, "and unhappily he does not appreciate the companionship of those

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"Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne," Florence said, "do come in, you will catch your death of cold."

"My love, the carriage is waiting and you must excuse me; it is growing late. It has been delightful to be with you, and to meet your friends."

She shook hands with Mr. Fisher, and bowed to Ethel Dunlop; then she went slowly out of the room on Walter's arm,

the long train of Madame Celestine's dress sweeping behind her.

"Good-night, Mrs. Hibbert," Mr. Wimple said, and, shaking hands quickly with the air of a man who has many engagements and suddenly remembered one that must be instantly kept, he too was gone.

He was just in time to reach the carriage door.

"Mrs. Baines," he said, "I think you said you were going to South Kensington - could you take me as far as Queen's Gate?"

"I wonder where he is going," Walter said to himself as he went up-stairs again; "I don't believe he knows a soul in Queen's Gate."

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NEARLY in the centre of the Borderland of Scotland, through the heart of the mountainous district known of old as the Middle March and The Forest, there flows, from the south-west to the northeast, a stream much spoken of for the last ninety years, and famous in story, song, and romantic ballad. This is "the Yarrow," literally, perhaps, "the rough stream." It is a broken water certainly, but a rough stream it is not in any proper sense of the word. From the point where it leaps from the Loch of St. Mary, fullborn, to where it is fused with its brother water, the Ettrick, not far below the battlefield of Philiphaugh and the grey ruins of Newark, it is usually bright and sparkling, passing from rapid stream to calm, reflective pool, but for the most part rippling, restless rushing down amid the smooth rounded stones of its softly musical strand. To the ear which listens and broods over its flow, there seems to be a suggestion of that cadence of the ballad measure, which is so appropriate to the pathos of its story. The valley of the Yarrow- which may be taken as beginning above the Loch of the Lowes, and running north-eastward for some twenty-five miles has hills on either side of the rounded, massive kind, that flow down to the stream in a consent ing parallelism and harmony. Those in the upper reaches of the valley, especially if we take in the tributary Meggat Water, have a marked impressiveness and grandeur, rising with massive fronts to more than twenty-six hundred feet, their sides cut and cloven into deep grey heughs and

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scaurs, where of old the red-deer herded; but from the outflow of the Yarrow from the Loch they are gently sloping heights of some fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred feet, green and wavy in outline. The valley has thus no Highland cliffs to show, no great height of mountain, no striking grandeur of peak or summit; it has nothing by which it can appeal with sudden and intense impression to the eye or the sensuous imagination. Yet it has a charm, has had a charm through many ages. People, even at first sight, look and wonder, are stirred and brood over the scene over the lonely river, as it passes on amid those green, soft-sloping, wavy hills; the placid monotone of its bare, treeless scenery; the deep pastoral stillness of its braes and hillsides, broken only it may be by a fitful sway and sough of the water, or the bleating of the sheep that, white and motionless, dot the knowes. And if you stay there for some days, in summer or autumn, you will find that the stream and valley know well the mists and the sunshine, the rapid change of grey darkening cloud and bright gleaming sun-glimpses through the mottled heavens, that touch the heart to pathos and then to joy; it has, in a word, its "dowie dens" and its "bonnie houms," reflected it would seem in its sad and joyous song.

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Around this stream, this valley with its hills, its ruined towers, its storied names, - there has grown, through the last three centuries at least, a fulness of stirring associations and of imaginative feeling, a wealth of romantic ballad and pathetic song, such as is not paralleled in Scotland; such as is only matched in some respects by the lyrics that rose in the time of Burns to life and beauty on the banks of the Lugar and the Doon. The Yarrow we see is thus not the Yarrow we feel. The bare stream has been uplifted to the heaven of imagination; to the dreamland of poetry and pathos. That quiet Border stream has flowed for many ages throughout the heart of the land of old romance; and it will flow in the time to come with a quickening power and thrill for all souls capable of being touched by the simplicity, the strength, the tragedy of our old-world life, and of love faithful to death. It belongs now to the realm of the ideal, and this encircles us as the heavens, and changes not, "whate'er betide." But its ancient story and ballad I cannot here touch in detail. I wish now only to look for a short time at a certain modern outcome of the older minstrels? lays, and try to realize that mysterious

charm which the Vale of Yarrow has ex-| mode of locomotion truly; but we may be ercised over the spirits of two men of thankful it was so, and the tour so leisvaried genius-men who were able to urely done. There was much keen obexpress in the melody of accomplished servation and rich meditation - much fine song what many have been able only to emotion by the way, many stirrings of feel - I mean William Wordsworth and heart and fancy, which are now immortal. Walter Scott. Compare this way of travelling and its results with the boasted modern method of being shot through the air like live luggage, at the rate of fifty or sixty miles an hour, and think of the fine poetic fancies which usually are inspired in the railway carriage! Ours is the day of the maximum of locomotion; is it not also the day of the minimum of reflection? After journeying through the Highlands, Wordsworth and his sister on their return home visited Scott and his wife at Lasswade on the 17th September, 1803 - the memorable day on which the two greatest men of the time first clasped each other's hand. Wordsworth and his sister parted with Scott at Lasswade, under an engagement to meet again in two days at Melrose. The two travellers made their way to Peebles and the Tweed. Just before this time the fine old wood at Neidpath had been cut down by its owner the Duke of Queensberry -to spite his heir of entail. It was on a Sunday that Wordsworth visited Neidpath Castle, and on his return from it he was accosted and taken aside in Peebles by some one in authority, and required to give an account of himselfthe poet being probably, and not unnatu rally, by the municipal mind considered a sort of vagrant or tramp! He seems to have escaped with an admonition; they did not put him in jail. The result of that day's visit to Neidpath was the famous sonnet on the destruction of the wood there. He commemorates the outrage, but has an eye for nature's remedy of its own wrongs man's outrage, nature's healing :

It is now eighty-nine years since Wordsworth passed down the vale of the Tweed, and first linked his name to the long line of the minstrels whose hearts the Yarrow has stirred to song. This visit to Tweedside and the Borderland recalls strange and thrilling memories of a time long gone. It takes us back to the rich and glorious dawn of our modern poetry and romance; and we seem to see moving in it the young and eager faces of some of the men who were destined to fill all Britain, even all Europe, with the thrill of their rhythm and the power of their song. These men have done their work; they have now passed away; and we have but their writings and their graves. Walter Scott, then but thirty-two, was haunting Tweedside and the glens of the Borders in search of old legend and romance, and the Ettrick Shepherd was herding on the hills of Leithen Water. As yet neither had made his mark in literature, but Hogg was seeing ecstatic visions on the hillside, and Scott was going about restlessly crooning to himself the stanzas of the as yet unpublished "Lay of the Last Minstrel; " and the young century had the promise of one of the richest summers of literature the world has known. When Wordsworth and Scott met for the first time at Lasswade, and afterwards conferred together on Tweedside, at Melrose and Jedburgh, who, looking to that day and comparing it with the present, will venture to give us words adequate to estimate the wealth of ideas, of purifying, ennobling emotion, of ideals that lift us above self and pelf and the down-dragging world, which has been added by these two men alone to the treasury, the spiritual treasury of mankind?

Many hearts deplored The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain The traveller at this day will stop and gaze On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and
bays,

And the pure mountains, and the gentle
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

Tweed,

Wordsworth, looking from any one of the mountains of Cumberland, which he was accustomed to climb, might have seen in a clear day the shadowy forms of the Cheviots and other Border hills; but if he had been in Scotland before, it was only to cross the border. In August, 1803, he, Leaving Peebles, Wordsworth and his his sister Dorothy, one of the noblest, sister went down the valley of the Tweed. most richly endowed, and most self-sacri- Innerleithen, Traquair, Elibank, Ashiesficing of women, and Coleridge, their tiel, each had its share of notice. At friend, left Keswick for a tour in Scot-length they reached Clovenford. land. The travelling equipage was an question now was, Shall we turn aside to Irish car and one horse a slow-going Yarrow. that is, down by Yair away to

The

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